


Could Be Dangerous—But Festive

by The_Cool_Aunt



Series: Endpoint [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Case Fic, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Fluff, References to Canon, Social Anxiety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:55:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28355049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Cool_Aunt/pseuds/The_Cool_Aunt
Summary: Harrods. Come at once if convenient. If inconvenient, come anyway. Could be dangerous. SHThis occurs before ENDPOINT: His Innocence and Arrangements (Endpoint universe); between The Hounds of Baskerville and The Reichenbach Fall (BBC). Post Johnlock, but no reference unless you squint.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Endpoint [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/253966
Comments: 5
Kudos: 21





	Could Be Dangerous—But Festive

_Harrods. Come at once if convenient. SH  
  
If inconvenient, come anyway. SH  
  
Could be dangerous. SH_  
  
John Watson sighed and shoved his mobile into his jacket pocket. With everything that had been going on—constant cases and increasingly intrusive media coverage—he’d barely even begun holiday preparations beyond deciding that they would _not_ be hosting a party this year. The mad man with whom he shared his life had been so busy complaining about the mind-numbing music, garish store displays, and lack of well-planned, clever criminal activity he hadn’t dared to bring up anything about sending cards, decorating the flat, or planning a Christmas dinner earlier in the month.  
  
Then the problem of the lack of interesting cases had been solved by a rather grisly series of crimes, and he began to observe the detective occasionally pausing while examining a crime scene and, just for a moment, focusing on the ornaments or holly branches or fairy lights, a thoughtful if somewhat puzzled expression on his face.  
  
And now a trip to Harrods. Was that significant? Did it mean anything?  
  
 _Unlikely_ , he muttered to himself. Probably tracking down the source of some bauble or other all the crime scenes had in common. That was the only reason he could think of that would get the younger man anywhere near the immense and wildly popular store at this time of year.  
  
 _So this is Christmas_ , he thought grimly as he tidied his desk and prepared to leave work.  
  
He did have some gift shopping to do, anyway.  
  
Git.  
  
*  
  
Sherlock Holmes loitering outside one of the most prominent department stores in the world looked, oddly, completely natural. He was actually a fairly regular customer, ordering bed linens and towels and even suits and shirts (of course he had the suits and shirts tailored, but might as well start with the highest-quality materials, right?). Of course, he could have gotten any of those things from a variety of sources, but Harrods was just so terribly convenient.  
  
Well, the website was.  
  
The actual, live shop was a bit... alarming.  
  
Particularly at this time of year. The _holidays_ , he moaned to anyone who would listen (and many more who wouldn’t)—a series of dreadful, noisy, crowded, tedious, loud, irritating, unnecessary days filled with ridiculous customs, unwanted sentimentality, horrid music, obscene amounts of food...  
  
He stopped himself from thinking about the food. Annoying was one thing. Distressing was another.  
  
All that holiday _cheer_ , he reflected instead, wrinkling his nose as images of cards, trees, fairy lights, roasts, sprouts, and puddings danced in his...  
  
 _Just stop_ , he firmly told his brain. _Can we think about the series of ears that recently have been found merrily wrapped in festive Christmas paper and left under trees in seemingly unrelated people’s homes instead?_  
  
He swore he heard his brain snicker at him.  
  
Oh, no. Not his brain.  
  
Just John.  
  
*  
  
Despite the milling throng that was absolutely clogging the pavement in front of Harrods, John had had no trouble spotting his mate. In his dark coat and scarf, with matching curls and scowl, Sherlock’s very presence seemed to part the crowd, leerily shifting left or right to create an open space around him. Granted, he was leaning against a lamp post, but people seemed to be giving it (and him) a rather wider than usual berth.  
  
Ridiculous man.  
  
He stood directly in front of him, chests nearly touching, as the iridescent eyes suddenly focused on him.  
  
“John!”  
  
“Amazing. Brilliant.”  
  
“I’ve been observing the ebb and flow of the crowds going through the doors,” he explained, trying not to smile at the shorter man standing so close to him.  
  
“And what have you noticed?” the doctor asked patiently.  
  
“There is a distinct seven-minute interval between periods of intense activity,” he reported succinctly.  
  
John frowned. That was not at all what he had been expecting. “Really? That’s... that’s actually rather fascinating, Sherlock,” he admitted. “Any deductions as to the reason?”  
  
“Well, I’ve considered the average time it takes to walk from the closest Tube station, how closely the intervals coincide with typical meeting times—you tell someone 'I’ll see you at seven’ or ‘eight-fifteen’, never ‘twenty-one minutes past two’—even how often that dreadful music loop repeats.”  
  
“And?” The doctor couldn’t help grinning.  
  
“So far, no correlations come to mind, but with additional observation—”  
  
“Oh, no. You got me all the way down here. We’re going in.” And with a firm tug, Captain John Watson led his (somewhat reluctant) soldier into battle.  
  
*  
  
“I said _lavender_ , you idiot,” he hissed.  
  
“Lavender. Right,” the young man who had been attempting to assist them agreed numbly.  
  
“He means that light purple,” John interjected.  
  
“Oh! Right. Here.” He handed over a pair in the size they had indicated (demanded) and scurried away.  
  
John sighed deeply as he watched the retreating figure. That was the third in the last twenty minutes they’d chased off the floor. “Lavender slippers for Mrs H,” he confirmed. “With the dressing gown and eye mask, that’s you and me for her.”  
  
*  
  
“Oh, that’s a corgi; isn’t it adorable?” The shop girl beamed as she held up one of the baubles.  
  
“A what?”  
  
“Corgi. The queen’s favourite breed.” She sounded a bit breathless.  
  
Sherlock snorted. “What’s wrong with it? Is it deformed?”  
  
“No...” She looked desperately at John for assistance.  
  
“We’ll take them.”  
  
The royal-themed baubles for Mrs Turner and her Married Ones let John tick them off from his list. But not before a lecture on inbreeding—and John was never entirely sure if Sherlock meant the dogs or the royal family.  
  
*  
  
“Yes, she does have several that are similar, but that’s sort of the point in _collecting_ things,” John managed through gritted teeth.  
  
“That’s one of those ‘one of each’ things, isn’t it?”  
  
John groaned. “Yes, it can be one of those ‘one of each’ things.”  
  
Sherlock’s frown deepened. “How much variation could there be if these come out every Christmas?”  
  
“First, that’s not the point, and second, she hasn’t gotten one in several years—since her father died.”  
  
“You talked to Molly Hooper about _Christmas teddy bears_?”  
  
“Yes. We had a lovely chat. Now grab one.”  
  
“What’s the matter, John? Can’t reach the top shelf?”  
  
*  
  
John was beginning to feel overheated and hungry and overloaded with the suffocating mixture of voices, music, and not-always-pleasant scents surrounding them. He couldn’t fathom how his mate had remained, at least for him, _fairly_ well-behaved...  
  
“A bit caddish, isn’t it?” he was demanding of a middle-aged man holding several bags.  
  
“What’s _caddish_?” he asked in bafflement.  
  
“Purchasing gifts for your wife, your lover, and his partner at the same time.”  
  
“What the hell are you talking about?!” The man bellowed, his face flushed a deep red.  
  
John groaned.  
  
*  
  
“I don’t know how you did it, mate.” The head of security extended a hand.   
  
Sherlock gave it a withering glare. “ _Obviously_ you don’t know how I did it,” he hissed. “An employee has been stealing from store stock for months and you didn’t have a clue. I don’t know how you and your staff could have missed it. How do you manage to retain your position here? Is everyone here equally incompetent at their jobs? That would explain the travesty of a book that garlic-addict tried to push on John as ‘highly recommended’. Just because something is a ‘best seller’ doesn’t mean it’s good. In fact, it’s opposite. Tripe for the masses—”  
  
“Sorry. He means he was happy to help. Sherlock, shut it— _now_!”  
  
The security director, whose hand was still extended, stared as the undeniably most brilliant but rudest man he had ever encountered hung his head at the shorter man’s command. “Sorry,” he mumbled into his scarf.  
  
“Low blood sugar,” John offered, still staring daggers at the taller man. “Probably time we got something to eat.”  
  
“Anywhere you like, on the house—as our official thank you from Harrods.”  
  
John considered. “A beer wouldn’t go down wrong right now,” he admitted.  
  
“Head down to the Baccarat—lower ground floor. I’ll call them; let them know.”  
  
“Ta, mate. Sherlock, what do you say? I could use a break.”  
  
“Yes, John.”  
  
*  
  
“If I order something, will you at least try some of it?” John peered at the short food menu. He was grateful that the security chief had steered them towards the bar. The food menu there was just nibbles rather than full meals; he was much more likely to find something that wouldn’t overwhelm Sherlock here than a full-service establishment. He held his thumb over the prices as much as he could; for once he was selecting items because they sounded good rather than whatever was least expensive.  
  
This was on the store’s own tab, after all, and he had no problem with that.  
  
*  
  
Surprisingly, Sherlock had partaken of the dishes he ordered, which consisted of a dish of smoked salmon with a lively sauce and a toasted brioche with camembert. Instead of beer, he had a glass of wine that, he reported solemnly, was “acceptable.”  
  
Thus fortified, they struck out again.  
  
Now to find something for Lestrade.  
  
*  
  
John shrugged. Who was he to argue? Sherlock had, completely by surprise, headed directly to the men’s designer collections after their repast, and within minutes had selected an extremely handsome shirt. The doctor didn’t even wonder if it was the correct size. Names apparently were irrelevant, but sizes could be deduced from acute observation—and he had no doubt whatsoever that the article would fit Greg Lestrade to a T.  
  
“You should select a tie,” he was surprised to hear. The doctor looked up at him in some bewilderment. “Shirts are logical. Ties are not,” he explained.  
  
“I see,” he nodded. “So, I’m in charge of illogical decisions?”  
  
“Well, yes, John. Clearly.”  
  
The doctor took this in the manner in which it was intended—a compliment—and headed towards an attractive display.  
  
*  
  
Finally, they were done. John’s headache had started shortly after Sherlock had pointed out that maternity wear would be a more appropriate purchase than lingerie to an alarmed young man. There was no way he was going to suggest the Tube—expense be damned; they were taking a cab. He sat back into the deep seat with a groan.  
  
“Are you all right?” the detective asked after giving the cabbie their address.  
  
“Knackered.”  
  
Sherlock nodded.  
  
They rode in silence for a bit, looking out opposite windows at the brightly-lit shop windows and hurrying crowds. A brisk wind had begun to wind its way through the streets. John watched as a well-dressed man suddenly dashed forward to reclaim his hat.  
  
“Tea and putting my feet up sounds perfect right about now,” he admitted. “Did you really mean it?”  
  
“Mean what?”  
  
“You really dragged me to one of the busiest places in the city at the busiest time of year to actually shop for gifts? No other reason?”  
  
His mate gave him a complicated look. “What else would we be doing there?”  
  
“I thought... something to do with the case?”  
  
“The ear case? What does that have to do with it?”  
  
“I thought... the decorations or something. Something in common you’d noticed at all the crime scenes.”  
  
The detective smirked... and then—there was the _Look_.   
  
“Driver! New Scotland Yard! Now!”  
  
John sighed. He should have seen _that_ coming.  
  
*  
  
It all went rather quickly after that. The previously unknown lopper-off-of-ears had swiftly become a subject of intense interest after Sherlock had identified the connection between all the recipients of the grisly gifts. Apparently alarmed at the sudden possibility of being exposed, he had escalated his activities, and two of the victims had finally gone to the police.  
  
“No wonder none of them came forward earlier; rather awkward to have to report that your dealer’s sliced off your ear because you haven’t paid for your illicit substances,” John mused, expertly examining the wounds.  
  
“It also explains how the houses were chosen for the ‘gifts,’” Lestrade added. “All relatives of the victims. None of _them_ were about to suggest a connection between what they found under their trees and the black sheep of the family.”  
  
The young man seated in front of John moaned. “My poor sister,” he mumbled. “I’ll never make this up to her.”  
  
“Checking into rehab would probably be a good first step,” John muttered back as the man hung his head in shame.  
  
*  
  
They got home shortly before midnight on Christmas Eve. They had finally departed NSY around ten o’clock, but John had not begrudged Sherlock’s detour into a few of the darker corners of the city before they headed for Baker Street. He watched with a small smile as the thin man quietly and unobtrusively distributed bank notes to the homeless, surreptitiously slipping something into the pockets of those who were sleeping.  
  
“You’re not concerned they’ll just use the cash for drugs?” he inquired as they made their way through the quiet streets.  
  
“Not all homeless people are addicts, John.”  
  
“Yeah... sorry.”  
  
*  
  
Keyed up, neither of them had any inclination to retire, so they both changed into something comfortable and found one of the many filmed versions of _A Christmas Carol_ on the telly. Finally, John had yawned and stumbled to bed, poking a dozing Sherlock on his way to encourage him to relocate from the sofa before he got a crick in his neck.  
  
*  
  
Christmas Day had been punctuated with calls, mainly on John’s phone, including one from Greg Lestrade. He sounded a bit muzzy and subdued.  
  
“You seen your kids yet?” the doctor asked gently. It was the first Christmas after he had split from his wife (now officially ex-wife-number-two) and John ached for his friend. He himself had been happy not to have had to deal with his sister, but he couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be separated from your children on such a special day.  
  
“Tomorrow.”  
  
John nodded. “Good. Enjoy yourself.”  
  
“Yeah...” he sighed, then took a deep breath. “I will, you know?” he added, sounding a bit cheerier. “They’ll be thrilled—I’ve got a pile o’ stuff for ‘em. Maybe take ‘em to a film in the afternoon.”  
  
“Sounds good, mate.”  
  
“Hey, thanks for the gift.”  
  
“Ta. Sherlock picked the shirt.”  
  
“Yeah? I should’ve guessed. Probably hand-stitched by blind nuns or something.”  
  
John chuckled. “Probably. But it’ll look great on you.”  
  
“I’ll save it for court.”  
  
“Testifying for or against Sherlock?”  
  
They both laughed.  
  
*  
  
“Merry Christmas, Harry.”  
  
John’s sister launched into an overly detailed, overly enthusiastic description of her latest girlfriend and her family, commenting several times on how welcoming they were. When he was finally able to end the call, he rolled his eyes. Sherlock, who had been buried in a new book, glanced up and frowned.  
  
“Harry?” he asked unnecessarily.  
  
“Yeah—trying way too hard to convince me—or herself—that she’s found ‘the one’... again.”  
  
*  
  
“Sherlock, it wouldn’t kill you to call your brother.”  
  
“It might.”  
  
*  
  
John surveyed the sitting room. There were plates from breakfast still on the desk and empty mugs of coffee and hot chocolate perched around the room, with bits of wrapping paper strewn everywhere, adding a festive air.  
  
They had each had some gifts to open, and the positively immense gift basket from Mycroft was displayed on the kitchen table. Even Sherlock, who had rolled his eyes and moaned petulantly about “showing off” when it had been delivered, had stopped grumbling when he noticed that the fruit, cheeses, and even the candies were all his favourites.  
  
Finally, they were at the last two—their gifts to one another.  
  
“You first,” Sherlock directed, handing John a perfectly wrapped box.  
  
The doctor examined it. “Do you use cello tape at all?” he wondered. Despite his steady surgeon’s hands, his attempts at gift wrapping seemed to use miles of the stuff.  
  
“Don’t be absurd, John. It’s merely a matter of selecting high-quality paper and attending to the folds.” He looked disdainfully at the colourful bags in which many of their gifts had arrived (and which John had insisted they save for re-use).  
  
“Of course, it is,” the doctor muttered, smiling fondly at him. He carefully unfolded the dignified paper—emerald green with golden swirls—and his mouth fell open at what he revealed.  
  
“Sherlock, this is fantastic!” He carefully extracted a smooth wooden hinged case from its lightweight cardboard box. Placing it on his knees, he undid the clasp and opened the elegant wooden and leather backgammon set. He ran his fingers over the pieces. “Really beautiful. Thank you.” He received a solemn nod. “Now mine.” He slipped it from beside his chair and leaned forward to hand it to his mate. He grinned and sat back.  
  
Long before their trip to Harrods, John had agonized about what he could possibly get for him. He had immediately dismissed any sort of clothing—he wouldn’t be able to select a single pair of socks that were acceptable, let alone a shirt or something. He had considered a selection of different honeys, tins of biscuits, and even a selection of gourmet-flavoured popcorn—but seeing Mycroft’s overflowing basket, he was grateful for not having pursued this option, as anything he could have procured would have seemed piddling in comparison. Finally, it had dawned on him. Here he was, considering the most mundane sorts of gifts possible, when the man for whom he was buying was anything but. Sherlock Holmes was a unique man. Only a unique gift—one that truly reflected his personality—would do.  
  
Sherlock smirked as he tore through the paper and tape, making a show of getting a piece stuck to his finger, then chuckling at John’s muttered “Prat.”  
  
And then his expression changed.   
  
“John,” he nearly whispered, “this is gorgeous.” He skimmed his fingers across the board, then reverently lifted the lid of the box and caressed the polished wooden chess pieces.  
  
“I thought it would be a nice change from that old set,” he replied, tipping his head towards the bookcase in which the cardboard-and-plastic set resided.  
  
“It’s lovely. Thank you.”  
  
“This doesn’t mean I’ll play with you,” the doctor added. Their few attempts at Sherlock instructing John in the game had nearly ended in violence more than once.  
  
“Hm?” The younger man looked up from the wooden pieces he was examining. “Oh, no, John. Obviously not.”  
  
The doctor laughed and shut his new backgammon set, placing it on the small table next to his chair. He rose and stretched. “Okay. If we’re going to have Christmas dinner before midnight, we’ve got to get going on it. Come on. Into the kitchen with you. You’re doing the chopping.”  
  
*  
  
“That was quite good,” Sherlock commented, wiping his lips delicately. “Thank you, John.”  
  
“You did half the work,” the doctor reminded him, smiling at the empty plate in front of him. “And now, if you do half the washing up, I will consider it a Christmas miracle.”  
  
*  
  
John sighed deeply and sunk into his chair. Dinner had been quite good, if he did say so himself, and he had just poured a glass of beer for himself and wine (from Mycroft’s basket) for Sherlock. His mate slumped into his own chair and tasted the ruby red liquid.  
  
“Hm. Nice,” he commented, holding the glass up to the firelight.   
  
“Greg called earlier. He said thank you for the shirt and tie.”  
  
The detective frowned and took a generous sip of his wine.  
  
“The shirt you picked out for him? Our excursion to Harrods?”  
  
“Oh, yes. I believe that holiday shopping is a level of hell Dante did not cover.”  
  
“Dante? I thought you’d deleted classic literature.” John let a mouthful of amber liquid slip down his throat.  
  
“Not all of it. There are references I find useful to The Work.”  
  
“I see,” John nodded sagely. “Murders and whatnot?”  
  
“Mm. Yes. Shakespeare’s works are quite full up with those.” He took a drink and, with just the tip of his tongue, thoughtfully licked a droplet of wine from his top lip.  
  
“Right...” John said dimly, momentarily mesmerized by the droplet of wine—lucky, lucky wine. He cleared his throat, took a good mouthful of beer, and had to clear his throat again.  
  
*  
  
Sherlock polished off his glass and rose, reaching out. “More?” he asked, indicating John’s now-empty glass.  
  
“Sure. Why not?”  
  
They set up John’s new backgammon set and enjoyed their second glass each while playing. It was one of the few games they could play together without pieces flying. Sherlock had instrumental versions of classic Christmas songs playing, and John had poked up the fire until it cast dancing shadows across the room. The street was blissfully quiet.  
  
John had turned off the ringers on both of their phones.  
  
For a while, the clatter of dice and click of the pieces on the polished wood blended comfortably with the music and cracking fire.  
  
“This is really a nice set,” John commented. “Thanks again.”  
  
“Thank you for the chess set.” He rose and wandered lazily into the kitchen to pour each of them a third drink.  
  
“Any attachment to that old set?”  
  
“Sentiment, John? No. Clearly.”  
  
“So, it’s okay if I chuck it?”  
  
Sherlock shrugged, slouching back into the sitting room and handing John his glass.  
  
“It’s always surprised me—that tatty thing. I would have expected you to already have some fabulous set.”  
  
“I used to—years ago. It was quite elegant. Antique, made probably 1895 or thereabouts. It was a Christmas gift from Mycroft just before my fifteenth birthday.”  
  
“What happened to it?” John asked guilelessly.  
  
“Sold it.”  
  
“Why...” John wanted to kick himself. “Never mind. That’s all in the past. Come on. One more game.”  
  
*  
  
John rose and stretched. “This place is a skip,” he commented mildly. He bent and picked up the cardboard box in which his new backgammon set had been. He turned it over in his hands idly. Something caught his eye. He examined it, then looked suspiciously at his mate. “Sherlock, what’s this?”  
  
“What’s what?”  
  
“This. You bought this in person. You went into a shop. You swore you’d never go into one again during the holidays.”  
  
“When did I say that?”  
  
“After Harrods.”  
  
“What... makes you think I didn’t order it?” the younger man spluttered.  
  
John grinned. “It’s got a shop label on it,” he pointed out.  
  
“I... might have gotten that months ago.”  
  
“There’s a sticker. It says ‘The Perfect Christmas Gift’ with a little ivy frame. Pretty sure they don’t put those on in the summer.”  
  
“I...” Sherlock fell silent, his mouth still open and a look of utter bafflement on his face.  
  
John roared with laughter. “Oh, that’s fantastic. Sherlock Holmes, speechless.” Then he took pity on him. “You did that for me?”  
  
“Mm.” He pinched his lips together and nodded.  
  
“Was there any shouting? Insults? Did you get chucked out?”  
  
He shook his head vigorously.  
  
“That’s brilliant, then. Makes it even better. Thank you.”  
  
*  
  
“Happy Christmas, John.”  
  
“Merry Christmas, Sherlock.”  
  



End file.
